And Like an Echo
by RedKetchup
Summary: Life isn't a wishing well, and even if it were the stained bills wouldn't be good enough to pay for your prayers.


Your days are wet kisses, moving hips, and dirty cash, and somehow, in some way, this is good.

Except it's also bad, _so very bad_, and the fact that you made double the money of Monday's business means nothing to the spitting shopkeeper or the frowning police officer.

But trying to keep to the back alleys, to try and reel in just the bad fish, means a blow from Barry's itching temper. It means no money for you, despite the fact that you were the one who worked for it.

It means that sweaty bodies, purple bruises on dark skin, and tiny pills are _good_, and that leaves the world, with its hungry children and fenced in walls, to be the bad.

* * *

><p>You ask yourself, over and over again, questions that should have no business being in your head.<p>

You think _what's your favorite color_, when you should be flaunting your curves at the man across the street.

When you're roaming small hands over a customer's body you pause and question, _how many days has it been since you've left home_?

The pit in your stomach, the boulder of dread that sinks with every step as you walk to Barry's, makes you ask_ did you get enough money today_?

And the thing is, most of the time, there are no answers.

There are some things, however, that you do know.

Like the fact that you're in Ergastulum because you have no where else to go, or that Barry is your pimp, and making him mad means blows to your body.

The fact that the closest thing you've had to proper human contact is when you're on your stoop, and the men in the apartment across the street meet your eyes through the window.

It's there, in that alley, that no one bothers you or snaps that you're not shaking your hips enough. Barry doesn't find you here, and there's no real trouble on that street.

There's just a window, a pretty man with a friendly smile or a brooding one with ink-drop eyes, and you, quiet in your suffering.

* * *

><p>If you were Alex Benedetto, you might remember tiny hands tugging at your shirt. Maybe even a dirt-streaked face looking up at you.<p>

There'd be a voice - _your own_ - and for once it wouldn't be husky and pressed hot against a stranger's neck. No, it'd be like the rain thrumming against the windows, soft and cool.

The words from your mouth would be, _There are no monsters in your bed, Emilio_.

There would be a wobbling lip, damp eyes blinking up at you.

So you say, caving to the child's fears, _I suppose, since my bed is higher off the ground, the monsters can't get us there. Sleep with me tonight._

The child would smile, arms reaching upwards to be picked up, and if you're Alex Benedetto, if you remember, you'd know you love the boy _so very much_.

But you don't remember, and you're not Alex Benedetto. You're-

"-such a -_ ngh_ - dirty whore," the man grunts against you, hands gripping the back of your head and pulling you forward. He jerks when you do something with your tongue.

You suck the man off, you collect the money he tosses to the ground, and you don't remember a little boy.

You remember nothing.

* * *

><p>Barry wears his rings when he slaps you, the asshole.<p>

It hurts, too. Hard enough to send you sprawling to the ground, vision snowing out for a moment.

Your eyes sting, eyelashes wet with the tears you won't shed.

He tells you that _you're not good enough_, that _the money is not good enough_, and you wish he'd stop. You wish that it would all just stop.

Except life isn't a wishing well, and even if it were the stained bills wouldn't be good enough to pay for your prayers.

* * *

><p>You could tell yourself that you're fine - <em>perfectly fine<em> - with it all.

Except you're not.

Not when you're kneeling over the crate you were just screwed against, hands clasped tightly together like you could be praying, and who knows, you probably are. You're praying to a god who has not been there for you, or maybe you're hoping for something else, like for you to be struck down and have it end.

Maybe your hands shake so hard because between your fingers is the dirty handkerchief the windowsill men dropped down to you, like a sign, you think bitterly, from above.

So no, it's not fine, not when a piece of cloth has more power than a human being should have.

* * *

><p>It ends - <em>begins<em> - like this.

Blood stains and gunshots, leading you through a maze of backstreets.

There's three men; one with his cigarette smoke smile, one with his eyes, filled with unspoken and unknown things, and one with blood in his lungs.

Except it's not enough, not even when your hands find their way to the dead one's body. Not even as they feel the gun. Not when the trigger moves under the pressure of your finger.

And what is there to feel after, when you're walking away and wiping at the tears that have finally spilled?

Alone could be a word used, because you're still alone, still in a fenced-in world. You're still not Alex Benedetto.

You could be, though, because then there's a coat over your shoulders, smelling like tobacco, and two men beside you, walking like you were the space that was always between them.

_We're selfish_, the one with his arm around you says. _So I hope you don't mind_.

The short man's dog-tags clink together in agreement.

With no other context and just the three of you, that's how it begins.

You think, _it's more than enough_.


End file.
